


here my heart knows calm

by faithtastic



Series: sworn under an oath [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Porn with Feelings, Smut, a whole lotta thirst, gay puddle Lexa, mangling of Trigedasleng
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8548570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: Canon-divergent smut with feelings, in which Clarke is reunited with Lexa after returning from Arkadia.AKA the continuation of 'sworn under an oath' nobody asked for.AKA the lengths I’ll go to in procrastinating over Nanowrimo.





	

In theory, Clarke thought she’d be able to show some restraint. During the elevator’s slow ascent she’d drawn deep, steady breaths, tried to quell the fluttering in her stomach as the guards escorted her to the throne room, the feeling magnifying with every footstep.

The reality is more like this: the moment the double doors swing open the air gets knocked from Clarke’s lungs. Dozens of faces turn towards her, a low, respectful murmur of _Wanheda_ rippling around the chamber but it’s little more than white noise at the edge of her awareness. All her focus is reserved for just one person.

That first sight of Lexa, bathed in the late afternoon sunlight that spills through the drapes, makes Clarke want to fall to her knees. The golden rays catch the chestnut tones of Lexa’s hair, throw the sharpness of her cheekbones into relief. She’s the epitome of poise, as still and untouchable as a statue. Only the soft gleam of her eyes, moving over Clarke as if she’s a mirage, betrays her.

As soon as Lexa lifts her palms, issuing a crisp, clear “gon we", as soon as the doors shut behind the last attendant and Lexa rises from the throne, neutral expression giving way to a faint little smirk, Clarke knows she hasn’t a hope in hell of playing it cool. She crosses the floor in a few quick strides; Lexa meets her halfway.

She buries her nose in the crook of Lexa’s neck, revels in the warm, familiar scent of her: soap and leather, the hint of incense and woodsmoke that clings to her hair. Clarke takes it all in, one shuddering lungful of _Lexa_ , like the first gasp of air after being submerged under water too long. The arms around her waist tighten and she’s grateful for the firm hold because her knees feel embarrassingly weak, as if they might give way at any moment. She grips at Lexa, blunt nails skittering over the shoulder guard, the worn suede of her coat, everything about Lexa real and solid and tangible and present.

 _I missed you_ , Clarke wants to say but it seems inadequate, somehow. Her relieved, trembling sigh against Lexa’s throat speaks volumes more and she doesn’t fail to notice how Lexa shivers into it, how she clutches harder at Clarke’s body.

“Lexa.” She exhales it, a benediction, a prayer, into the warm skin of Lexa’s neck. Clarke presses one small kiss there, then another, and another, until she hears the catch of Lexa’s breath and there are fingers slipping into her hair, guiding her mouth to Lexa’s.

That first slow, gentle brush of their lips has Clarke sighing again. The careful delicacy of it reminds her of their first kiss in the Commander’s tent all those months ago; a stolen, tentative moment on the brink of war as they faced an uncertain future.

(She pushes down the other memory that kiss evokes: the bitter sting of the betrayal it preceded. Pushes it so far down until she’s able to pretend it happened to someone else, not the girl Lexa prostrated herself before and swore fealty to, not the girl who witnessed Lexa’s tears at the prospect of goodbye, not the girl who made Lexa fall apart under her mouth and hands.)

This kiss tastes like a reward, a homecoming, the beginning of something precious and profound. It leaves Clarke breathless, heart knocking against her ribs.

For the first time in weeks she smiles, so freely, so widely that her cheeks ache from it. Lexa gazes back at her, lips parted, those beautiful green eyes wide and intent. Clarke touches Lexa’s face with reverence, runs a finger over the cut-glass line of Lexa’s jaw. She lets her eyes trail slowly, indulgently over Lexa’s features. Because she’s allowed. Because they’re alone and no one is around to criticise her for it. In private Clarke doesn’t have to pretend that she isn’t enraptured by every aspect of Lexa’s being.

The open fascination is mutual. Despite all the regalia of Heda—the coat, the armour, the sash, hair twisted into the usual intricate braids—Lexa’s expression is unguarded, adoring, a smile curling the corners of her mouth. She looks at Clarke as if she’s the most miraculous thing in existence, holds her like she’s someone to be cherished, the embodiment of salvation at her fingertips.

Clarke’s hands move, drifting down to Lexa’s shoulders. “I thought about you.”

It’s a quiet admission, so small as to be almost lost on the breeze that flutters through the drapes. The pads of her fingers trace over the hard ridges of Lexa’s collarbones, the hollow of her throat.

“Your voice; your eyes; the way you walk; that thing your jaw does when you’re trying to keep your composure.” A muscle in Lexa’s jaw ticks, as if on cue. “Like that.” Clarke leans in, smiling, warm breath fanning over Lexa’s cheek, until she reaches the shell of Lexa’s ear. “I kept thinking about all the things I wanted to do to you when I saw you again.”

“Clarke,” Lexa says, a slight, soft reprimand, and it’s giving Clarke life that Lexa has one fist clenched in her jacket now, seemingly uncaring of the dust and mud splatter that cling to the travel leathers.

She fits herself closer to Lexa’s body, wraps both hands around the back of Lexa’s neck to keep her in place. She lets her lips graze the edge of Lexa’s earlobe, savouring the shudder, the quiet little intake of breath it earns. “God, the things I want to do to you, Lexa.“

This time when Lexa brings their lips together it’s nearly bruising, the kiss containing weeks of pent up longing. Clarke returns it eagerly, mouth opening to deepen the contact. It’s everything she’s wanted: Lexa’s tongue heavy in her mouth, long fingers sunk into her hair, the solid heat of Lexa’s body arching into her. Clarke pushes into it, chasing whenever Lexa retreats, until they’re both trembling and breathless. Until... she becomes aware of the hot, startling splash of tears against her cheeks. Not her own; Lexa’s.

Clarke pulls away, heart lurching at the sight of the wet tracks on high cheekbones, the teardrops that cling to Lexa’s dark lashes.

“This could really give a girl a complex, you know,” she says, offering a small smile. It widens at the confused little crease that forms between Lexa’s brows. “Seems like every time I kiss you I make you cry.”

She wipes the moisture from Lexa’s cheeks, lets her thumb skate across Lexa’s bottom lip. She leans in again, kisses Lexa in reassurance.

“Not that I’m complaining.”

She steals a longer kiss, gratified by the soft, shaky sigh Lexa releases into her mouth.

“I love it.”

She rubs the side of Lexa’s nose with the tip of her own. Their eyes catch and hold. The gossamer sheen of tears makes the green of Lexa’s eyes all the more vibrant. Clarke looks at her for a long, weighted moment.

“It’s really unfair how prettily you cry. You look like you cry diamonds meanwhile I’m like a ugly red-faced toddler throwing a tantrum."

A half-laugh, half-sob is loosened from Lexa and it’s startling in a way; hearing Lexa’s laughter is a rare and incredible boon. Lexa cards her fingers through Clarke’s hair, snagging on a few tangles, presses a soggy kiss to her mouth. “You’re always beautiful to me."

Clarke shakes her head and kisses Lexa again, pouring everything she has into it. She doesn’t relent until Lexa’s tears are dry, until she becomes distracted by the gentle scratch of Lexa’s nails against the nape of her neck, raising goosebumps across her skin.

“When do the celebrations begin?” Clarke asks between greedy kisses. She can’t seem to tear herself away long enough to catch her breath. She drags her teeth over Lexa’s bottom lip, lets her tongue glide across the pouty curve of it. The noise Lexa makes, a stifled groan, has warmth flooding Clarke’s body.

“After sundown.“

There’s probably thirty minutes of daylight left, which definitely gives them enough time to continue getting reacquainted. With that goal in mind Clarke begins to shrug off her jacket but the sudden, inexplicable absence of Lexa’s mouth against her own leaves her momentarily bereft.

She blinks. "What? Don’t you want to?”

“Yes. No.“ Lexa wets her kiss-swollen lips. "We can’t.”

Whatever internal struggle she’s having is apparent in the tightening of her jaw.

“I’ll be quick,” Clarke plants another kiss against Lexa’s mouth, smiling through it. “Trust me, it really won’t take much.”

“Clarke.” The redness of her cheeks undermines Lexa’s rebuke. She softens in an instant. “After the feast and in the days to come we’ll have time to be together. I promise you.”

Clarke huffs. “Fine.” She takes a few steps away to give herself some space; she can’t focus when Lexa’s standing so close and looking like that—mouth wet and rosy, a yearning look in her eyes. She sighs, "I guess I should go clean up, then.”

A tiny smirk appears on Lexa’s face, gone half a second later. “That would be wise.”

Clarke’s immediate instinct is to take offence. Then she gets a whiff of herself—God, she actually stinks, of horse and stale sweat and the road. She sags, relieved at the prospect of washing the layers of grime off her skin.

“My handmaidens will attend to you. I’ve had them prepare your room.” Off Clarke’s raised eyebrow, Lexa’s gaze cuts away. “I didn’t want to presume we’d be sharing my quarters.“

“Lexa.” The firm edge to Clarke’s voice draws Lexa’s eyes back to her face. "I want to share.”

A nod, the slightest lift of Lexa’s chin.

That settled, Clarke pivots and makes for the double doors. Halfway, she pauses, glances over her shoulder.

“Oh, and Commander?” She has to take a second to just drink in the sight of Lexa, eyes making a slow sweep from head to toe and back again. "Don’t count on getting much sleep tonight.”

  
  
*  
  


The torch-lit procession passes slowly through the uneven streets of Polis, winding its way from the stockade at the edge of the settlement to the market square in the centre. Each clan has provided a retinue of elite warriors, an honour guard that must number at least two hundred by Clarke’s estimation.

The city itself is almost unrecognisable, transformed by coloured glass lanterns strung up between buildings, yards of dyed cloth draped from open windows and stirring in the breeze. The focal point of the tower looms large, the flame tinged blue in recognition of Skaikru on this historic day. The people of Polis line the route, hanging out of doorways and windows. Children duck and weave between the adults, scampering alongside the procession to try and get a better glimpse of Heda. The cheers are loud, almost drowning out the clatter of hooves and the stomp of marching feet.

Beside Clarke, his horse matching the slow trot of her own, Roan tips his head towards her. His eyes twinkle with mirth and Clarke finds herself returning a small smile. She’s pretty sure that if anyone had told them a month ago that they’d be riding side-by-side behind Lexa, their respective factions fully accepted into the Coalition as allies, neither one of them would’ve believed it. Even now Clarke keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop because her time on the ground has been all about lurching from one crisis to the next, never quite able to take a breath, to take stock, only one mode of thought: survival. Despite Lexa’s assurances of peace, it stills feels like an ambush waiting to happen. She hates that she's been conditioned to think this way.

As they near the market the dissonant rhythm of drums becomes steadily louder. By the time they turn the corner onto the square the crowds are denser and the chants of “Heda, Heda, Heda!” remind her of that day in the arena.

She wishes that her friends, her Mom and Kane were here to experience the spectacle but the situation in Arkadia remains precarious. Pike may be dealt with but what’s left of his supporters are still causing trouble and, as the newly elected Chancellor, Kane has his work cut out trying to build consensus and repair the damage done. It’s the reason her Mom decided to stay behind, to lend her support.

(Well, it might also have something to do with the lingering glances Clarke’s witnessed between the two of them. That one time she bumped into a dishevelled-looking Kane leaving the infirmary. It’s not that Clarke disapproves. Honestly, she likes Kane and she wants her Mom to be happy but she’d rather not know any details. Imagines her Mom will feel the same way about Lexa when she tells her, which Clarke hasn’t. Yet.)

The procession gradually comes to a halt when they reach the raised wooden platform that’s been constructed at the far side of the marketplace. The crowd quietens as Lexa dismounts from her horse. She climbs the steps, sash trailing behind her as she walks to the centre of the platform. Following the lead of her companions Clarke slips from her saddle and takes up position beside the other ambassadors. Behind them the warriors file into in rows, backs ramrod straight as they await Heda’s pronouncement.

The drums are deafening now, the echoes rattling up through Clarke’s bones and pressing in on her sternum. Her eyes are drawn to Lexa. In a flowing ceremonial gown and cloak, elaborate paint around her eyes, dark braids spilling down her back and catching the breeze, she’s mesmerising. More than ever she looks otherworldly, a divinity, someone worthy of reverence.

Lexa signals for silence. She looks out over the assembled diplomats, warriors and citizens. When she speaks her voice carries strong and clear, “Senronas, gonas, kru kom Polis, oso hit choda op nat gon mounin Skaikru, ste thotinon ogeda, ona oso kongeda nodotaim noumou. Kom ste wamplei-de kom natrona Pike en oso baga honon raun, raitnes laik badan op. Chilnes laik oson. Teik em kom au klin, kom disa sintaim gon, oso kru laik won."

The crowd erupts into another cacophonous roar of, “Heda!” and Lexa indulges it for a few minutes, eyes gleaming with pride. She waits for the noise to die down before she raises an arm aloft towards the sky, fist clenched. “Nat, oso gid em op!"

The drums start up again, a frenetic rhythm that seems to make the ground shake beneath their feet. The sight of Lexa like this—powerful, basking in the jubilant adulation of her people—gives Clarke chills. For a second their gazes lock and it makes Clarke wonder how the _hell_ she's meant to get through this without breaking probably a dozen protocols, getting sanctioned and/or ejected from the Coalition before the night is over. Because, fuck, her mind is going to some very inappropriate places.

A heavy hand on her shoulder pulls her out of her daze. Roan smirks at her knowingly. “Come, Klark kom Skaikru. Now we feast."

  
  
*  
  


In a banqueting hall on one of the lower levels of the tower, Clarke finds herself seated between the representatives of Podakru and Yuljeda. Platter after platter of food is brought before them. She’s never seen such abundance: saddles of venison, boar, some kind of game stew; plentiful helpings of roasted vegetables; hunks of bread to be torn and shared; and a steady flow of delicious sweet wine to wash it all down.

The latter goes some way to loosening her tongue. The ambassadors bombard her with questions about her impressions of Polis, the customs of Skaikru, but the boisterous chatter from other tables makes it difficult to be heard above the noise. With conversation stymied, her eyes stray inevitably towards the top table where Lexa sits, a single point of calm amongst the revelry.

Lexa’s watching her too, none too discreetly. She feels the weight of that stare like a physical touch and it leaves her restless, shifting in her seat.

Clarke lifts her goblet in a silent toast. Lexa’s mouth tilts up, the barest flicker of a smile intended only for her, and the alcohol does nothing to dull the low tug of arousal.

  
  
*  
  


It feels like hours and many courses later before Titus finally calls out, “Gyon op gon Heda!"

Everyone stands—or, more accurately, staggers to their feet—as Lexa sweeps from the room, flanked by two guards. As she passes she gives Clarke a sidelong glance and Clarke reads the message loud and clear: _follow_.

They hadn’t discussed what’s a discreet amount of time to wait but Clarke gives it roughly ten minutes, erring on the side of caution. She excuses herself from the table, feigning a headache. The other ambassadors laugh and wave her off with a few good-natured taunts about her ‘weak' Skaikru constitution. On any other occasion she might’ve stayed to prove them wrong (because they they obviously haven’t tried Monty’s moonshine) but the thought of Lexa waiting for her, maybe reclining against the furs, all sun-kissed skin and dark, wanting eyes, is enough to override any competitive instinct.

She goes directly to Lexa’s bedroom, relieved to find the guards have been dismissed. Her knuckles barely graze the door before it opens. The first thing she notices is the nightgown—it’s the same black one Lexa wore weeks ago, on the night of her victory over Roan. One long, bare leg peeks out of the high split up the side. Lexa's hair is down, loosened waves falling artfully over one shoulder. The silvery paint around her eyes has yet to be washed off and Clarke can only assume it’s deliberate. Like this, she occupies an amorphous place between Heda and Lexa, a shimmering amalgam of the two.

Clarke draws her bottom lip between her teeth as her eyes wander up Lexa’s body. She’s staring and she doesn’t even try to pretend otherwise. Guile has deserted her, along with subtlety.

“Going to invite me in?”

It’s cocky, Clarke knows it, but she's encouraged by the wine she’s consumed, by the way Lexa’s eyes move over her in kind with a quiet sort of hunger.

It's the first time she’s been in Lexa’s bedroom after dark but, predictably, there are dozens of lit candles everywhere. The fragrance of beeswax hangs in the air and familiarity of it—a sudden reminder of their afternoon together all those weeks ago—leaves Clarke wobbly on her feet. She collects herself. Slips off her jacket to drape it over the back of the nearby winged armchair. She sits, eyes watchful as Lexa glides across the floor, the rustle of fabric the only sound in the quiet of the room.

When Lexa comes to a stop in front of her, Clarke isn’t sure what she expects. Not for Lexa to hike up the nightgown, anyway, enough to plant one knee on either side of Clarke’s thighs and settle on her lap. The armchair is a tight fit for the two of them but Clarke isn't about to object.

The satiny material of the nightgown stretches tight across Lexa’s stomach, straining over her hips, and it looks so damn flimsy that Clarke thinks a single sharp tug in the right place would rend it apart at the seams. Would Lexa be mad? It would be worth it, to see the startled little lift of her brows. While these thoughts mull over, she reaches for Lexa, one palm skimming over the warm, bare skin of her thigh, the other sliding around her waist. Fingers close around her wrist and Clarke looks up questioningly. Lexa holds her gaze as she pushes Clarke’s hand beneath the split of the nightgown. A noise—surprised, wanting—catches in her throat when she finds Lexa slick.

“Do you still need an invitation, Clarke?” Lexa asks, breath hitching.

Clarke glances down between them then back up to heavy-lidded eyes. She lets her fingers glide lower, watching for every tiny flicker of reaction in Lexa’s expression. It occurs to her that Lexa had to have been thinking about this all through the feast. Growing wetter every time she looked over to find Clarke’s attention upon her.

The thought pulls a groan from Clarke.

She plucks at the gown. “God, take this off. I want to see you."

Lexa’s eyelashes flutter at the gritty edge to Clarke's voice but she complies, gathering the nightgown, tugging it up and away from her body. All the moisture seems to flee from Clarke's mouth and rush between her legs. She swallows thickly at the sight of Lexa, bare, golden skin shimmering in the candlelight. Her gaze moves slowly over the jut of those lovely, small breasts, the slope of ribs into the subtle definition of abdominal muscles, the flare of hips, the patch of dark pubic hair.

“You’re so beautiful,” Clarke whispers, awed, as her fingers explore.

Lexa's hands come to Clarke’s shoulders to steady herself, lips parting on a soft sigh of, “Clarke” as she tilts her hips forward, seeking more contact.

The breathy sound of her name makes Clarke feel hot, uncomfortably aware of the tightness of her clothes, the dampness pooling in her underwear. She presses in, fingertips swirling around Lexa’s entrance. She keeps circling, withdrawing to spread the wetness around, each time returning to dip a little further inside. Lexa’s grip tightens, the fabric of Clarke’s shirt bunching beneath her fingers.

They both let out a stuttered moan when, finally, finally, Clarke enters Lexa. And, God, nothing could've prepared her for the reality of touching Lexa like this again, the feel of Lexa pulling her in.

(Every night, in the cot in her room in Arkadia, Clarke had shut her eyes, slipped a hand between her thighs and pretended she was touching Lexa instead. If she concentrated hard enough she swore she could feel the phantom pressure of skin against her own, a gust of breath on her face, the tickle of hair over her inner thighs. Sometimes she'd awoken from vivid dreams, already keyed up halfway to orgasm, and had to get herself off with a few quick strokes and a picture of Lexa held in her mind. Often it was the soft version of Lexa, with braids unbound and trembling lips; other times it was pure Heda, warpaint smeared around her eyes, all lethal grace and ferocious snarl. In the dark Clarke's imagination ran riot with thoughts of Lexa beneath her; on her knees; bent over the surface of her desk; pinned against the nearest bulkhead, pants around her ankles, biting down on a gloved fist to stifle her moans as Clarke worked her over the edge, three fingers deep.

Which, yeah. That was an especially good one. But, this? This a million times better.)

Their mouths meet in an urgent kiss, all wet sweep of tongue and hot mingled breath. Clarke can’t help herself. The idea of not kissing Lexa is anathema to her, as if being on opposite sides of the room for even a few hours was too much to endure after weeks of separation.

With her free hand Clarke kneads at the soft swells of Lexa’s breasts, lets her thumb rub over and around stiff nipples until Lexa’s whimpering into her mouth and rolling her hips. Clarke breaks the kiss to press her lips down Lexa’s neck, every gentle nip and suck at sensitive skin a tiny expression of devotion. She takes the time to lavish every inch of Lexa’s upper chest, her collarbones, the bare lines of her shoulders, with attention. She drops her head lower, raining kisses over Lexa’s breasts, taking each nipple into her mouth in turn, licking, sucking, raking her teeth across the hardened tips until Lexa’s shivering, thighs squeezing around Clarke’s own.

She runs her tongue over the hollow of Lexa’s throat, tips her chin up to capture Lexa’s mouth again. Adds a second finger. Swallows the shaky gasp that Lexa lets out while her hips surge forward. And, fuck, Clarke loves everything about this: the tight, hot cling of Lexa as she begins to rock into Clarke’s lap with purpose; the thick, wet noises as her fingers pump faster, deeper; the scrape of Lexa’s nails through the fabric of her shirt as Clarke angles her fingers, hitting that sweet spot with every thrust; the way Lexa’s abandoned all pretence of kissing to pant harshly into Clarke’s open mouth.

An unspoken _I love you_ fills the space between them.

It’s whispered in the sweep of Clarke’s thumb over Lexa’s clit.

It’s a silent mantra as Clarke drives her fingers up to meet the quickening cant of hips, while she rubs and circles and presses her thumb, until Lexa arches so sharply—back bowing, those gorgeous little tits bouncing, sucking in a sharp breath and letting it out with a high-pitched gasp—that Clarke has to sling an arm around Lexa’s waist to keep her from falling off her lap.

And Lexa rides out every shudder, every jerk, every shivery perfect second of it, clenching around Clarke’s fingers, hips rolling slowly now into Clarke’s palm. She touches Clarke’s cheeks with slightly trembling fingers, kisses her languid and deep, leaving her breathless and painfully aware of the ache between her own thighs.

When her hips cease their movement Lexa pulls away, only far enough to rest their foreheads together. This close Clarke swears she can see constellations in the endless dark of Lexa’s pupils.

“Clarke,” Lexa says, so softly it’s barely a word at all yet it holds a question, a vow, a million different affirmations.

“I’m here. i’m not going anywhere.”

  
  
*  
  


Lexa undresses Clarke at an almost glacial pace. With the reveal of each new patch of skin, she follows it with the warm glide of her mouth.

Clarke’s helpless except to arch into it, to wind her fingers into Lexa’s hair. She feels the impression of Lexa’s smile against her body: the side of her knee; the curve of her hip; the slight round of her stomach. The slow drag of Lexa’s tongue up between her breasts makes Clarke shudder, makes her tighten her grip on Lexa’s scalp until she reluctantly pulls away.

Lexa holds herself over Clarke. Lips parted, gaze hungry and stuck on Clarke’s mouth. The thin green of her irises, the whites of her eyes, are stark against the silvery paint. It’s a look that has Clarke shifting impatiently on top of the furs and reaching for Lexa’s jaw to direct her back down to waiting lips.

It quickly turns hot and heavy. Clarke isn’t capable of keeping her tongue to herself. She licks into Lexa’s mouth, coaxes her into an entanglement that leaves them both breathing hard after a few minutes. The hand not lodged in Lexa’s hair wanders, sliding down to cup Lexa’s breast, the hardened peak poking into the centre of her palm. Every stifled little noise that Lexa releases makes Clarke ever more aware of the slick spilling from her cunt. She draws her spread legs up. A moan catches in her throat when Lexa’s fingers splay over her inner thigh urging her wider still.

That first touch, the tip of a single long finger skimming through her wetness, makes Clarke break the kiss with a low curse, hips rolling up off the bed.

“Lexa,” she says and it sounds hoarse and needy to her own ears. She’s waited much too long for this and she isn’t in the mood to be teased now.

“Yes, Clarke?” A hint of a smile lingers at the corner of Lexa’s mouth; her cheeks are flushed, eyes brimming with humour.

Clarke only stares.

There’s something about Lexa’s answering short, easy laugh that sends heat flooding through Clarke’s veins. She uses the hold on Lexa’s hair to crush their mouths together again, separating for half a second only to change the angle and deepen the kiss. The way Lexa sighs into it, how eagerly she accepts the slide of Clarke’s tongue, is everything.

The next touch, firmer, comes as a relief. Lexa parting her, sliding low and pressing two fingers inside. And, God, she’d forgotten just how good they feel. Clarke's own, a poor substitute for Lexa's slim elegance, her _reach_.

“Fuck,” Clarke says, a throaty gasp, rocking down shamelessly.

She doesn’t rise to the bait of the smug little half-smirk Lexa gives her. Just glances down between them, at Lexa’s hand pumping slow and deep, the subtle flex of the tendons of her wrist, the glistening wetness clinging to Lexa’s fingers every time she withdraws only to glide back in. Clarke has to shut her eyes against that visual because she feels perilously close to losing herself already. The noises, though—the soft puff of Lexa’s breath, her own elevated breathing, the creak and groan of the bed frame, all eclipsed by the slick sounds of Lexa fucking her—are just as overwhelming.

She captures Lexa’s mouth in a greedy, messy kiss in an attempt to blot it all out. Winds her fingers tighter in Lexa’s hair, curves the other hand around the nape of Lexa’s neck. Clings desperately while Lexa’s touch turns shallower, more purposeful as she rubs back and forth over that particular patch of Clarke’s front wall. It’s only when Clarke begins to quake, a trembling that begins in her thighs and rapidly works it way up through her body, that Lexa allows her thumb to brush over the bud of Clarke’s clit. Circles it once, twice, three times before Clarke’s hips slam forward and a hoarse shout is wrenched from her throat. And Lexa doesn’t stop driving her fingers in and out while Clarke convulses around them, doesn’t take her thumb off Clarke’s clit for a second as she gasps and shudders and rolls her hips to take Lexa deeper once more.

Lexa kisses her through it, swallowing every broken, raspy sound, every soft, scratchy utterance of her name.

  
  
*  
  


“So…” Clarke strokes idle patterns over Lexa’s forearm, feeling the goosebumps that erupt beneath the pads of her fingers. “Want to go again?"

Lexa gives a soft, almost chiding look. “You need to preserve your stamina. I’ve entrusted Titus with all matters of the Coalition for the next two days. We’re not to be disturbed, short of a declaration of war."

Clarke’s eyebrows lift. “You mean Heda's actually taking a vacation?"

“I don’t know what this ‘vacation' is that you speak of but if it involves having you in my bed, screaming my name while I bring you release, then, yes."

Lexa’s archly confident tone makes Clarke shift, conscious of the wetness that still streaks her thighs. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, lets her gaze flick down Lexa’s body, lingering over a particularly impressive bruise she left on the outside curve of Lexa’s right breast and another in the divot of her hip.

“What makes you so sure I’ll be the one screaming?"

A smirk ticks at the corner of Lexa’s mouth. “Are you issuing a challenge, Clarke?"

Clarke pushes up onto one elbow and has to suppress a smile of her own at the way Lexa’s eyes are drawn to her breasts. She wonders how many people know the mighty leader of the Thirteen Clans is a boob girl. Titus. Indra, probably (to her chagrin). The distraction provides Clarke with all the opportunity she needs to hook her ankle around Lexa’s legs and roll her onto her back. She settles astride Lexa’s hips and she knows Lexa can feel her arousal by the way Lexa's eyelids slide to half-mast, by the parting of her lips, the pretty pink flush that spreads across her chest.

“Please. That would imply you’re any kind of competition."

“Be mindful of what you say. Questioning the prowess of Heda is tantamount to treason."

“Well then, I guess it’s lucky for me that sleeping with the Commander confers special privileges.” Clarke looks at Lexa from beneath lowered lashes. “Speaking of... does this mean I get a new official title?”

“Perhaps in private.”

“Oh?”

Lexa only hums, eyes crinkling.

The smile Clarke's been holding back starts to leak through and she sees it mirrored on Lexa’s face.

Clarke braces her weight on her palms and leans down, savouring the soft catch of Lexa’s breath as their chests press together. She couldn’t say who closes the distance, only that long minutes get swallowed up by the give and take of their kiss while Lexa’s hands move over her with certainty, trailing slowly up and down her back then sliding over the curve of her ass.

“Niron,” Lexa murmurs, nudging Clarke’s nose with her own, before drawing her into another lengthy kiss. “Ain.”

Lexa gives a firm squeeze, something a little possessive in the touch that excites Clarke more than it probably should. She groans hotly into Lexa’s mouth, again when the tip of Lexa’s tongue flicks teasingly at her upper lip.

In a quick reversal Clarke finds herself on her back, Lexa propped over her, smiling wider than Clarke thinks she’s ever seen. The sight of Lexa like this, radiating joy, steals the breath from Clarke’s lungs, makes her chest feel impossibly tight and warm. She lifts a hand to trace the shape of Lexa’s eyebrow, the curve of cheekbone, the stretch of that lovely smile that Lexa reserves only for her.

This is an indulgence, they both know it. For two days or however long before circumstances drag them back to reality: Lexa to her duties, Clarke to Arkadia. But, for now, Clarke wants to live it, breathe it, relish every second.

She swallows, draws her thumb across the plush give of Lexa’s bottom lip. “Ai laik,” Clarke says, low, sincere, eyes darting between Lexa’s own. “Oyun.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> Gon we = Go away/leave.  
> Lexa’s speech = Ambassadors, warriors, people of Polis, we come together tonight to welcome the Sky People, the thirteenth clan, into our Coalition once more. With the death of the traitor Pike and our enemies imprisoned, justice is served. Peace is ours. Let it be known, from this day forward our people are one.  
> Nat, oso gid em op = Tonight, we celebrate  
> Gyon op gon Heda = Rise for your Commander  
> Niron = Lover  
> Ain = Mine  
> Oyun = Yours
> 
> Join me in ~~hell~~ tumblr, [femininenachos](https://femininenachos.tumblr.com/).


End file.
